It was a hard week.

The night before Thanksgiving, I found myself nodding and smiling and saying bright, cheery congratulations to someone who’s been telling me for a decade that he loved me -as he introduced me to his new girlfriend, who just bought his business, and described their Thanksgiving plans  to me – drive north to meet her parents.

Nodding and smiling just so I could get out of there as fast as I could.  You know how that feels.  When there’s no air in your lungs and the only thing keeping you standing is the primeval grit of the Ancestors intoning, “Show no weakness.  Show no weakness.”

Because the place where this happened has been precious to me for so much longer than his endearments and sweet come-hithering.  One of the places that I really felt was mine.  Where I was participant, not a guest.  Where Brenna the flirt and the sassy-pants and, god help me, Brenna the beautiful was seen, and welcomed and exactly the right girl for the job.  A place I trusted – which really is not easy for me. A place where I felt the happiest I ever have.

And that’s what broke my heart, one last time.  Not him and his dumb new girlfriend.  I wish them luck, I truly do.  They’ll need it, if I know even half the story.

But I didn’t know I had already been in my place for the last time ever.

My little Brigadoon is vanished – and it doesn’t matter if I go back again or not.  There’s only 4 walls now, where I have to behave myself, and really, I can do that anywhere.

I would have waved good-bye.